Mannahatta: A Love Story

Mannahatta: A Love Story - Chapter 1

Chapter
1 - April 1654

In fairy tales, marvels and
evils befell girls who went into the forest. They fell prey to
witches and wolves, or met enchanted stags and elegant fairies.
For a long time, Anneke believed that talking animals and winged
maidens were a common place in the forests of Holland, just as
raccoons and squirrels were a commonplace here. After all, her
mother always insisted that there were no raccoons or squirrels
"at home." And she certainly had told Anneke that lies and
stories were the work of the Devil.

It was only when she was on
the edge of womanhood that Anna began to understand that
European forests were not exactly as her mother's tales painted
them -- that in fact in Holland there were hardly any forests at
all, but only farms and fields, cultivated as far as the eye
could see and broken only by endless straight lines of trees
that ran to the horizon. That landscape was far harder for her
to imagine than a wood filled with fairies and strange beasts.
It was strange enough to picture a land where everything was
cultivated when the dragging of stumps from newly cleared farms
and the cutting back of the stubborn maple saplings that
encroached on the fields beyond Wall Street had been annual
activities for as long as she could remember. It was stranger
still to picture a land as flat as a lake here. The Lenape name
for Nieuw Amsterdam was Mannahatta - "the Island of Hills" - and
Anna was not the only one to use it because it was so
appropriate.

When she was twelve years old,
Anna's father bought a painting at the auction of old Meneer de
Peijster's estate. There was a panel on the frame that said
"View of Leiden" and a picture full of cloudy skies and great
gray stone spires, rising out of flat green fields. Anna's
mother had caught her breath when she saw it and thanked her
husband with a catch in her voice. "It's beautiful," she had
said. "I almost forgot how beautiful."

After that Anna had realized
that her mother's fairy tales took place in a land that looked
quite different from modern Holland. But it was still easier for
her to picture (and to believe) in the stories of thick forests
haunted by wolves and bears and witches (little Anneke had
pictured the witches as looking like the Lenape women, with
straight black hair and copper skin and eyes) than to believe in
the existence of brick and stone cities where tens of thousands
of people lived in houses that rose four and five stories above
orderly canals. The forests seemed a lot more plausible.

By the time
she was sixteen, Anna was determined to visit what she (along
with the rest of Nieuw Amsterdam) still called "home." She
wanted to see the cities - as crowded as a ship's hold for
many times the length of Nieuw Amsterdam people said, and the
factories where fine china and glass beads came from, and the
polders where men
had tamed the sea, instead of merely perching on the cliffs
above it.

It was
precisely because of her interest in Holland that Anna had
gained the freedom to roam the forest like Little Red Riding
Hood. She had taken to pestering the sailors and new arrivals
from the West India Company ships, anxious for stories of
Europe. Her parents had judged her safer in the forest than
down by the docks among the sailors. "Anneke,
run and cut some wildflowers, child." "Anneke, the herb
jar's low again." "Anneke, we need blackberries for jelly." The
errands were real enough, and her mother's voice was always
casual, but sometimes Anneke wondered how her father's inn had
survived so long before she was old enough to gather wild
berries for preserves and flowers to dry and store among the
linens.

On the
whole she did not mind spending time in the forest though, at
least not in the spring, when the weather was relatively mild,
and the air smelled so much fresher than the narrow stinking
streets behind the stockade. The path north from Heere Straat
that ran diagonally along the length of Mannahatta followed a
high ridge, so it remained fairly dry after all but the
wettest days. It might lack the interest and romance of the
great old highways branching out of Amsterdam or Antwerpen,
but birds sang in the trees, and water glinted green in pools
on either side, and it was wide enough that the sun shone
directly overhead. Anna headed south toward Nieuw Amsterdam,
her basket filled with the goldenrod her mother always put in
newcomers' rooms because they admired it so much, and her
pocket jingling slightly with the sewant her father
made her carry in case she ever ran into the Lenape. "Better
to give them a few stuivers worth of shells than get hurt or
kidnapped," he had counseled her. "They may
be heathens, but they aren't fools. Give them the sewant and
get away." The forests of Nieuw Amsterdam
were more boring than the mythical fairy tale woods, but in
adult terms, a lot more comforting. No one in fairy tales ever
suggested that the Wicked Witch could be bought off. Anna
headed home singing a song of far off adventure that seemed as
unreal as a fairy tale: Oh there was a gallant
ship, and she sailed upon the sea/and we feared she would be
taken by the Spanish enemy...

******

The clock of Amsterdam's
Zuiderkerk was just tolling six in the distance when Solomon
knocked on the ornately carved doors of the new home of the de
Pintos. No one answered the door for a moment, and the young man
took the opportunity to catch his breath, and smooth his
clothes. He had dodged through the crowds of people still
cramming the market of the Vlooienberg and strolling along the
lock, afraid of being late, although his appointment was not
until a quarter past the hour. Heer Daniel de Pinto was a good
man, but he disliked tardiness and disobedience in those he
employed. Solomon would have taken care to be on time for a
meeting with Heer Daniel, let alone a summons from Daniel's
broher, Heer Isaac. Isaac de Pinto was rumored to be one of the
richest men in Amsterdam. Although he was only in his
mid-twenties, within a few years of Solomon's own age, he had
already managed to purchase an imposing home in a gentile
neighborhood. The white house on Sint AntonieBree Straat had a
modest enough facade, but the sheer size of its looming three
stories, and its location on the far side of the lock from the
rest of the Jewish quarter of Vlooienberg were enough to impress
Solomon.

He did not
have time to admire the carved doorposts with their gilt mezzuzah for very
long. Both halves of the door swung open at once, revealing a
neatly dressed maid. "Can I help you, Meneer?" she asked.

Solomon
felt wretchedly familiar embarrassment as he gave the girl his
name and business. She could so easily have been his sister or
even his mother. His cousin Deborah worked in a house like
this, along with countless other girls that his mother called
her landsmen (even
though as far as Solomon could tell they weren't blood
relations at all, but merely an endless flood of indigent
refugees who spoke his mother's dialect well enough to impose
on her good nature). And yet this maid curtsied to him and
called him "Meneer" and he had to fight the urge to mimic a
Portuguese accent for her so that she mistook him for a
gentleman.

The de Pintos had adapted to
Dutch ways enough that Solomon had to shed his shoes and put on
house slippers before he was conducted up the stairs to the main
floor, where Meneer de Pinto had his study. As he paused on the
threshold, Solomon thought that the place looked like the
setting for a painting.

It was a large room, well lit
now by the row of windows on the southern wall, their casements
open to catch the spring breeze and the afternoon sunshine. The
floor was highly scrubbed tile, laid in alternating squares of
black and white. One wall was completely covered by bookshelves,
and a desk and chair sat in front of a disused fireplace
opposite the books. A mirror hung above the fireplace, giving
the impression that the room was more book lined than it really
was.

In the
center of the room was a rectangular table. Half a dozen men
were seated around it, most on long benches on either side,
and one in an armchair at the head. As Solomon entered the
room, the man in the armchair nodded a greeting, and the
others stood up. They looked, thought Solomon, trying to keep
his courage up as he advanced into the room, as if they were
sitting for a group portrait. The kind of thing that would
hang in a gilt frame in the hall of some government or
charitable body. Like the painting of the Regents of the city
in the Stadhuis, or of the
Night Watch that Solomon had once seen in Meneer Harmenzoon's
studio. Like most of Amsterdam's burghers, they were not men
to display wealth ostentatiously. But their sober black
clothes were velvet and fur-lined, and the gloves stuck in
their belts were softest leather. Spread across the table,
Solomon saw as he advanced, was a map of the West Indies that
showed both their lineage and their profession as clearly as a
coat of arms. The possessions of the Dutch republic were
outlined in blue ink. Red ink traced the lands of the Spanish
Empire.

He caught no more than a
glimpse of the map before the man nearest to him moved forward,
holding out a hand. "Solomon, thank you for coming so promptly."
Though Daniel de Pinto, like his brother Isaac, was only in his
mid-twenties, his assured manners made him seem older. Although
he was dressed in the style of any Dutch gentleman, with his
beard trimmed in the Dutch style, he spoke in Spanish.

"Su seguro
servidor, señor." Your servant, sir. Normally
Solomon had a passable accent in Spanish, but now, under the
stares of these men among whom he recognized several of the
great ones of la nacão as they
called themselves, he felt his Rs going flat and his vowels
lengthening and flattening into a gutteral German parody of
Spanish, marking him as a slum born brat in front of the
gentlemen. Although he had felt a vast desire to speak Spanish
to impress the maid at the door, Solomon now fought down a
flash of rage at the arrogance of la nación. Looking
down their noses at us, he
thought, hearing the echo of his mother's bitter voice. So proud
of being Portuguese! Portugal
and Spain are death sentences for them as well as us, and they
risk being spat on and burned alive if they go there, same
as us, but they all talk about going home. A hundred
and fifty years its been now since they could even call
themselves Jews in Spain, and still they're "Spanish." So
they think they're goyim, then? They want to be goyim,
maybe!

Daniel de Pinto appeared not
to notice Solomon's stumbling mispronunciation. He ushered
Solomon toward the table, and presented him to the assembled
group as "my colleague, who I was telling you about. You know my
brother, Isaac, of course, and the Rabbi Mortera," one of the
white-ruffed men smiled politely. "And this is Avram Peyreyra,
Miguel Nunes da Costa, Antonio Lopes Mendes, and my father,
Abraham de Pinto." The gray browed man in the armchair, who had
been observing Solomon silently as the other men shook hands and
murmured words of greeting bowed his head slightly, without
speaking.

Solomon
bowed to the silent man at the head of the table, more
impressed than he was willing to admit. He had never met Isaac
and Daniel's father. The old man had lived in Rotterdam until
quite recently, and spent most of his time in study, withdrawn
from the family business that he had entrusted to his sons.
"An honor, Dom Abraham." He switched from Spanish to
Portuguese to prove that he could. "I am ready to perform any
service that may be of help to you, Senhores."

"A courteous offer." It was
Isaac de Pinto who answered. He spoke with a twinkle of
amusement that seemed out of context with his grave
surroundings. "But you should perhaps know what we are asking
before you promise your aid. Sit down." He gestured. "And tell
me what you see."

Simon sat, feeling puzzled. He
had expected that Daniel de Pinto had called him as an extra
witness to a business contract, or perhaps to make out a fair
copy of some document. His good handwriting, and facility with
Hebrew as well as Latin letters had won him steady employment
with Meneer de Pinto, and his master had called on him before to
perform such tasks. He had not expected to be welcomed into a
council like this one, much less asked his opinion. He inspected
the map spread before him, determined to appear as intelligent
as possible under the circumstances. "It's one of the new West
India Company maps," he said. And then, since more seemed
expected, he added. "At least, I think it's new. I don't recall
so much detail on the coast of Brazil in the ones I've seen."

"You have seen such maps
before?" It was Nunes da Costa who put the question.

"Yes, sir. Señor Daniel de
Pinto has employed me to catalogue his library. And we have
filled contracts to outfit ships of the Dutch West India
Company." More and more Solomon felt that this was a test, and
he was pleased to turn the conversation to matters where he was
sure of his own expertise. "And we've bid on cargoes from the
Brazilian trade."

Don Isaac nodded. "Then you
have been following the situation in Brazil?"

Solomon spoke more cautiously.
"The political situation, you mean?"

"Yes."

Solomon took a deep breath. "I
only know rumors, of course. But I've heard what everyone has;
that the Portuguese have sent a fleet to retake Recife, and that
the colony there is under siege."

"And have you considered the
implications if Recife falls?" It was Nunes da Costa who put the
question again. Where Don Isaac had spoken quietly Nunes seemed
to be repressing some strong emotion.

Solomon
nodded. "At best, the Portuguese will expel all practicing
Jews and put the inquisition into effect. Our contacts in the
coffee and tobacco trade will lose their livelihoods, and
we'll lose our contracts there. At worst...." He hesitated. He
had seen the "at worst" as a child, and it still haunted his
nightmares. He found himself feeling oddly protective of these
men, so accustomed to the wealth and safety of Amsterdam. It
seemed cruel to spell out what would happen to the kindred of
la nación if the
Portuguese retook their Brazilian colonies.

"At worst the Portuguese will
sack the city, sparing neither Jew nor Gentile." It was Isaac de
Pinto himself who finished Solomon's sentence. "And we must also
face the probability that those of our people who survive will
be given no chance to leave, but forced into baptism
immediately, and then held in Brazil, subject to the
inquisition."

"And may God have mercy on
them," murmured Nunes. Peyreyra frowned at him, and he flushed,
realizing that it was a Gentile phrase.

"That being the case," Isaac
de Pinto continued as if he had not been interrupted. "We feel
it is imperative to make some provision for the probable
refugees."

"It has held out, for six
months now," Don Isaac informed him. "Our agents say that it is
unlikely to last the year. And that is why we have sent for
you."

Solomon's
jaw dropped. "Because the Portuguese may retake Brazil? I'm
sorry, Señor, but I don't see how I can help."

"If and when Recife falls,
there must be a city willing to receive the refugees," Don Isaac
explained. "We are of course investigating other Dutch
possessions in the Caribbean, so that the refugees can remain
close to their homes, and can continue practicing their trade in
sugar. Curaçao is a distinct possibility. But we must face the
fact that the Spanish and French control the majority of the
Caribbean, and that the Dutch may lose their holdings there as
well."

"You think they will have to
resettle in Holland?" Solomon said, still uncertain how he fit
into the de Pintos' plans.

Rabbi Mortera shook his head.
"If they do so, we lose the benefit of foreign contacts for
trade, and the community here suffers."

"Doubly
so," Don Isaac once more took over the conversation. "Since we
lose both potential business and also the influence that gives
us with the gentlemen of the city council of Amsterdam. We
live unmolested here because we bring wealth to the city. But
-- if you will allow me to speak frankly -- if Amsterdam is
faced with another flood of
penniless Jewish refugees, while at the same time the income
of the Sephardic community noticeably declines...the Christian
authorities may not look on us so favorably. It could have
serious consequences for us all."

Solomon felt his cheeks and
neck flushing in a mixture of anger and shame at a good deal Don
Isaac had not said. The men of the informal council before him
were among the wealthiest and most influential of the Sephardim,
the Jews of Spanish and Portuguese descent who had fled the
Inquisition to the newly independent Holland after the
Netherlands had declared their independence from Spain. The
Sephardim shared a colonial history with their Dutch neighbors.
Many had come generations earlier, and even the relatively new
arrivals had come with money, education and family contacts in
place. They were proud of their acceptance by the Dutch
authorities, of the peaceful coexistence with Gentile neighbors
that they claimed went back to the golden ages of medieval
Spain, before the dark century of the Inquisition.

Solomon was
different. Not a member of the Sephardic nación, but an
Ashkenaz, one of the crowds of German-born, Yiddish speaking
Jews born in the stark poverty of the Eastern ghettos,
devastated by the generation of bitter warring among the
German princes. He had arrived in Amsterdam with his family at
the age of five. They had walked the three hundred miles from
Frankfurt, starving and in rags, ahead of the soldiers who had
looted their home. Solomon's younger brother had died on the
journey. He still woke up sweating sometimes, trembling with
the memory of his own relief that the crying baby was no
longer making the journey an extra hell, and the hope that
perhaps now his mother would carry him part of the
way, and give him extra food. He did his best to not remember
the journey when he was awake.

The
contempt and annoyance of the haughty Sephardim who had met
them in Amsterdam were still vivid in his memory though. He
and his family had received food and clothing from the
charitable members of la nación, but the
first words of Spanish he had learned had been insults: vago,
mendigo, pícaro....lazybones, beggar, rogue.
The Sephardim made no secret of their opinion that the
Ashkenazi refugees were a disgrace to the Jewish community.

And now
it's our fault
the council of Amsterdam will be angry at the Portuguese
refugees from Recife! Solomon
thought. At least in Frankfurt there's no Inquisition!
But no, we're the ones
who are supposed to be ashamed. Aloud he
said, "And what exactly do you wish me to do, Don Isaac?"

"We are
negotiating with the English government," Don Isaac said. "It
is possible that Cromwell will allow Jews to return to
England. But we are also considering other Dutch colonies.
What do you know about Novo Belgica?"

Solomon
considered. "It's the same as New Netherland, isn't it? There
was a pamphlet that came out – two or three years ago, maybe?
- The Truth about New Netherland, or
something like that, I think."

The silent Don Abraham took a
hand in the conversation for the first time. "You have read this
pamphlet?"

"N-no,"
Solomon flushed, wondering whether admitting to knowledge of a
book published in Dutch by a Gentile was a wise thing to do
among the men of la nación. He would
have staked his livelihood that Don Abraham himself was not
able to read Dutch easily. "But I've heard of it. Because we
do business with the West India Company, you know. And it made
a big stir when it came out. The author made the place out to
be a paradise. It's farther north, I think, not so hot as
Curaçao or Recife, and a more healthful climate, but with fine
hunting and farming, so I've heard."

"It is
always strange to me that the Dutch think that the farther
north a climate is the more salubrious it must be," Don
Abraham shook his head slightly, and Solomon remembered that
the old man had been born in Spain. "However, you are correct.
More to the point, the book was published in an attempt to
recruit colonists. The West India Company seeks settlers. We
think they may be amenable to accepting Jews from Recife."
Solomon nodded, following the old man's logic, but still
uncertain what his role was supposed to be. "In brief, Señor
Pietersen, we - that is the parnassim of the
community here in Amsterdam - are looking for an agent to go
to Novo Belgica, and negotiate with the colonial governor
there. My son mentioned your name."

Solomon took a deep breath.
"For how long?" he was proud of how steady his voice was.

"That depends a little on
whether you can come to an understanding with the governor of
the colony." Abraham de Pinto answered. "The man's name is
Stuyvesant. Pieter Stuyvesant. He worked for the West India
Company in Curaçao before his present posting. He has a somewhat
particular reputation."

"He's a thick-headed, despotic
son of a whore," muttered Nunes, not quite under his breath.

"Which is why we
particularly seek a man of tact and diplomacy to deal with
him," Abraham de Pinto spoke in a slightly emphatic voice and
with a faint frown at his colleague, but otherwise gave no
sign of having heard Nunes' outburst. Returning to Solomon's
original question he continued. "If it turns out that Nieuw
Amsterdam is as welcoming as Recife has been it might not be a
bad place for an ambitious young man looking for opportunities
to make his fortune. Many of the East India Company merchants
go out to Batavia for five or even ten years. And they return
rich men, respected by all."

"Five or
ten years?" Solomon repeated, stunned.

"You are still a young man,"
Abraham de Pinto said. "I believe you have no wife, nor
children?"

"No," Solomon flushed again,
thinking of Daniel de Pinto's family and inwardly damning the
old man for the gentle reminder that he had no immediate
prospects of being able to afford to marry. But beggars could
not be choosers, and though it further his exposed his family's
precarious finances he forced himself to add. "But my
parents...I'm an only son, and my father isn't as young as he
was..."

Rabbi
Mortera spoke up. "As you go for the entire community I think
I can guarantee that the parnassim of the
synagogue will see that your parents lack for nothing while
you are away."

Solomon
lifted his chin. "That's kind of you, Rabbi. But we're ashkenazim, so we're
not members of your synagogue." And we're
not beggars, even if the Portuguese do treat us that way, he added
silently.

"Of course,
as a general rule, it doesn't make sense for the ashkenazim to join the
synagogue." Abraham de Pinto's words were an understatement. Ashkenazim were banned
from permanent membership in the Portuguese synagogue because
its wealthy members claimed the Germans were "rowdy" during
services. Not a trace of this bitter dispute showed in the old
Sephardi's bland tone as he continued. "Under the
circumstances, though, perhaps you and your parents might
consider becoming members. My sons speak highly of you, Señor
Pietersen. And a reliable young man such as yourself, who has
done the community much good, might think about joining the
synagogue if only because it would increase the number of
potential brides."

Solomon
blinked. He was torn between a rosy vision of himself as a
wealthy and established man, the head of a household with his
own servants, like Daniel de Pinto, and a wary suspicion that
the Sephardim would never allow him to reach such heights so
easily. Or then again, perhaps they offer it because
it won't be easy, he
thought. Abraham de Pinto misread his hesitation and added, as
if as an afterthought. "Naturally a stay in Nieuw Amsterdam
might do much toward gaining a fortune. But marrying a young
woman with a decent dowry would also be desirable. My niece
Raquel, for example. Daniel," he turned to his son. "How old
is Raquel now?"

"Just twenty-one," Daniel
nodded at his father, as if approving the idea. "And she and her
mother have been alone since her father died." He turned to
Solomon. "She's a good woman, if she is my cousin. She would
have been married before this, but her fiance died just a few
months before the wedding - smallpox, it could have happened to
anyone - and her father didn't see to a new betrothal before he
died. She stayed with us when Mariam was born to take care of
the children, and she has a wonderful knack with youngsters.
She'll be a good mother."

"And my
sister's husband's will left a significant sum for her dowry,"
Abraham concluded. He smiled at Solomon. "I don't know that it
would be wise to draw up a formal ketubah before your
journey, given the risks of travel to the New World, and since
your stay there is of uncertain duration, but perhaps we might
discuss the matter further, and make some informal
arrangements before you sail. If you are
interested in marriage, of course. And if you would consider
undertaking the journey as our agent."

Solomon
struggled with a mad desire to begin singing a verse of a
popular song that seemed absurdly appropriate. "Oh, I
shall give you silver, and badge of nobility / and my own
youngest daughter your bonny bride shall be/ if you will
swim along beside the Spanish enemy..." The men of
la nación were
offering him everything: not just money but a place in the
synagogue, and alliance by marriage with one of the greatest
of the "Portuguese" families. They were practically offering
him a chance to become Sephardic.
And all he had to do was brave a month long voyage through
oceans plagued with Spanish and English pirates, to a
settlement at the back of the beyond, to negotiate with a man
of "particular" reputation. He took a deep breath. "Of course,
I am happy to help the community in any way I can. What
exactly would be the details of my commission to the governor
of Nieuw Netherland?" He tried to suppress the knowledge that
the end of the song echoing in his head was that the brave
cabin boy died, betrayed by the captain who had promised him
wealth and honor.